Poetry & Texting
by mssmithlove
Summary: Sherlock has a Secret Admirer! Too bad it isn't that gorgeous Rugby Captain he's been tutoring…or is it?


Sherlock is slack-jawed and confused as he stares at the unfolded paper in his hand.

He reads it again, wondering if maybe he's having some twisted dream.

_**Your hair is as dark as night**_

_**Your eyes are sometimes silver, sometimes green and sometimes blue**_

_**I just wanted you to know I think you're beautiful**_

_**And I really fancy you**_

_**-YSA**_

Sherlock holds the note delicately between his fingers.

He does not, for the life of him, understand.

Not thirty seconds ago, he'd been tearing open his locker furiously, scrambling to gather his books for Upper-Level Chemistry that he was about to be late for when this piece of scratch paper had fluttered to the ground at his feet.

He promptly forgets all about Chemistry and stares down at the pencil-written paragraph – no, wait – _poem _he holds in his hand.

A poem.

Someone has written Sherlock a poem.

A poem about _him_.

About his hair.

And his oddly colored eyes.

And called him… _beautiful._

Sherlock can't breathe.

It's like all the air has been sucked from the hallway.

All the lockers and students and noise has faded away to silent white and the only thing in the world is this note.

He stares at it for another long moment, eyes scanning over the words, committing every single one to memory, heart pounding hard in his chest.

He may be a little giddy.

He bites his lip.

He's never had anyone fancy him before.

And who in the bloody hell is YSA?

Sherlock quickly scrolls through the backlog of his classmates in his Mind Palace, searching names and faces and initials.

He doesn't know middle names.

Damn it, why doesn't he know middle names?

Maybe it doesn't matter. He can't think of anyone with a first name that starts with a Y and a last name that starts with an A.

Maybe they scrambled their initials on purpose? To confuse him? To keep their identity a secret?

Or maybe it's an acronym?

Sherlock shakes his head. This is so frustrating. Why, if someone actually fancied him, would they write him a poem and not reveal their identity-

Oh.

Oh god.

Of course.

It's a hoax.

A little joke to tease the weird kid.

So obvious now.

Sherlock shoves the note into his notebook and slams his locker closed.

How could he be so stupid?

He knows better than to believe _anyone_ could like him, even for a moment.

He rolls his eyes at himself.

He glances around to make sure no one is watching.

Then he closes his eyes and blows out a breath, disappointment dropping heavy in his stomach.

* * *

"Well, you were right."

Sherlock snaps his head back to look up at the short figure plopping down in the chair next to him, yanking him from his thoughts. "S-sorry, what?" he replies.

His…friend? Acquaintance? - he doesn't even know what to call him - laughs. "The chemistry homework! Kicked my arse, I tell you what."

Sherlock, finally coming back to reality, nods. "Oh, right. Told you."

"Yeah, you don't have to say that after I already said you were right," John Watson laughs again, nudging Sherlock's shoulder with his own.

Sherlock ducks his head to hide the deep blush that is currently taking over his face.

It's what happens when he's near the rugby captain.

Two weeks ago, John had dropped into the seat next to Sherlock's in their shared Chemistry class and grinned, sticking his hand out to introduce himself.

Sherlock had barely kept from fainting.

Because Sherlock already knew _exactly_ who John Watson was.

John is a year older then Sherlock, a rugby player and a perfect male specimen.

For an entire year, Sherlock had pretended not to notice John. Not to know exactly what John wears everyday and who John spends time with. For an entire year, Sherlock feigned ignorance to this gorgeous captain.

Because Sherlock was absolutely certain that John had absolutely no idea who Sherlock even was.

Sherlock, a somewhat quiet, overly intelligent Year 12, was certain John had never noticed him.

There isn't much to notice, really.

Sherlock is… different.

Odd.

Weird.

Certainly there are other words meaner kids have used to describe him.

Sherlock loves science and experiments and rather doesn't have time for the petulant teenagers in his school. He mostly keeps to himself, his sharp tongue and several ill-advised explosions in his science classes having run off any potential friendships.

That doesn't stop the occasional shove into a locker or _freak _ringing out in the halls, but Sherlock is for the most part left alone.

Kids his age don't seem entirely sure what to make of him.

But John - there is so very much to notice about John. John with his pretty bright blue eyes and shaggy blond hair that fell just so across his forehead.

John with his big smile and loud laugh.

John with his… _John_ness.

John is stocky and built from all the years of sports. John is domineering in a subtle way, all sexy and confident but not overly done.

John is what Sherlock would consider beautiful.

And Sherlock is definitely not the only one to notice.

John is constantly surrounded by people, most often girls who fall all over themselves to get close the rugby player, giggling in high-pitched tones and finding reasons to touch him.

It's incredibly irritating to witness.

So Sherlock denied his infatuation for an entire year and pretended he wasn't lusting like some pathetic tween and pretended not to be utterly torn apart when a pretty girl batted her eyelashes at the blond boy.

And that only led to Sherlock... well going a bit mad, apparently.

Because thoughts of John consumed Sherlock.

While he could fake not noticing him at school, Sherlock could absolutely indulge himself when alone.

It was twisted, really, his deep intricate imaginings of the rugby captain being his.

Smiling at him and holding his hand.

Talking to him like his opinions mattered.

Touching his hips and guiding his body against his.

Treating him like he was loved.

They were things Sherlock had never even dreamed before.

Things he didn't even think he wanted.

But picturing John laughing and grinning at something Sherlock said... it _did_ things to Sherlock.

Which was so incredibly fucked up.

Because Sherlock had never even spoken to John. He had no idea what John was even like.

And then John had waltzed into his Chemistry class.

And Sherlock had had a very small but very real panic attack.

He kind of didn't want his illusion to be shattered. As unhealthy as it was, John had become this perfect human in his head. This incredible person Sherlock was certain he wasn't.

It was a little warped, but truthfully, Sherlock didn't want to know the real John. He didn't want to know that he was just another dumb, cruel, irritating jock with a head full of air and a mean fist.

Of course, that had all gone to hell when John had turned out to be...

Well.

"I think I'm going to have to get a tutor," John continues, running his hand through his hair. "This class is killing me."

"I could tutor you," Sherlock blurts before his brain has processed what that exactly entails, then promptly curses to the high heavens.

This is the nasty habit he's developed since first speaking to John Watson. Speaking before thinking.

Acting before thinking.

Drooling before thinking.

Turns out his imagination wasn't that far off.

The real John Watson is actually better.

Better than anything Sherlock could have ever conjured up.

Which is a huge problem.

Because not only is John straight and very much not interested in Sherlock Holmes, but he's also very much making it impossible for Sherlock not to..._feel _things.

Attraction is one thing.

Lust is one thing.

_Feelings _are a whole other ball game.

John grins. "That would be so great, mate, thank you," he says sincerely. "I really need it."

Sherlock looks away to hide the smile he's currently sporting.

He simply nods, feeling ridiculous and happy for making John grin. "No problem," he murmurs.

He can feel John beaming at him.

Their teaching begins class and they fall into a comfortable silence.

This is normally when Sherlock's mind promptly blurs and he disappears into a world filled with faux-John Watson.

A John Watson who touches him and holds him.

Who is kind and wonderful to only him.

Who whispers loving things in Sherlock's ear.

Whose world revolves around only Sherlock.

It's so incredible fucked up, he knows.

The bell rings, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie and he shakes himself.

He knows better than to linger after class.

He would never do that to John.

John, the popular bloke with the kind eyes and warm personality, did not need to be seen with the weirdo.

The geek in extreme.

The boy with no friends.

Sherlock is doing him a favor.

He would never let John be seen with him.

They can pass off chatting in class as necessary.

The hallowed halls of high school are a whole different story.

Sherlock races out of class and off to the library where he spends every free period he has.

It's stupid and sentimental and he knows better.

But he just wants to look one more time…

* * *

Sherlock pores over the note lying between the pages of his notebook.

He rereads it again and again. So many times the words are blurring together.

The handwriting is messy.

The poetry is amateur.

Most likely a male writer then.

Huh.

Maybe it's not a prank.

Seems pretty elaborate for the idiots at his school.

There were other options.

Maybe…

Maybe it just wasn't for him.

Maybe the note was placed in the wrong locker.

_**Your hair is as dark as night**_

Plenty of people have dark hair in this school.

_**Your eyes are sometimes silver, sometimes green and sometimes blue**_

The person could just be color-blind.

_**I just wanted you to know I think you're beautiful**_

Well that right there is telling enough.

Sherlock is by all means _not_ beautiful.

He is tall and gangly and pale, with chaotic curly hair and a funny-looking face. His cheeks hold sharp angles and his lips bow too deeply.

He is a far cry from beautiful, that much he knows.

He studies the note again.

_**And I really fancy you**_

Yup. Definitely the wrong person.

High school kids are morons.

They could have simply dropped the note in the wrong locker.

It would be an easy mistake to make.

Not a mistake Sherlock would ever make if he were dropping a note such as this in a locker, but if an idiot was in charge of it then yes, it was entirely possible.

So that's it then.

Mystery solved.

Either an accident or a joke.

He still can't tear his eyes from the paper. There is something about the messy hand-writing-

"Hey!"

Sherlock slams his notebook shut, pinching his fingers in his haste and biting down on a cry that threatens to leave his lips.

He slowly glances up to find John's bewildered eyes boring into him.

"Jesus, are you okay?" John asks sincerely. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Sherlock's mouth runs dry.

He's absolutely not prepared to be face to face with John Watson right now.

He feels his face burning with embarrassment. "What are you doing here?"

John frowns. "Uh…studying?" He says with a furrowed brow like that should be the most obvious thing in the world.

Which it should be.

They're in the library for Christ's sake.

"I have this period free," John tries slowly, looking at Sherlock like he's not sure he'll fully understand.

"Me too," Sherlock blurts, then immediately blushes. "I-I mean I know that… I know that's obvious but- I just meant that, you know, that I'm- that's why I'm here. S-studying. In the library."

Seriously?

He can't even speak properly.

John is grinning at him. "Right," he says.

Then he drops down into a chair at Sherlock's table.

Sherlock watches in horror as John takes a few books out of his bag.

He can't sit here.

Sherlock is knee deep in mysteries of secret love notes. He cannot possibly process that while John bloody Watson's beautiful blue eyes are anywhere_ near_ him.

He catches Sherlock's wide-eyed stare and widens his own in return. "Oh, sorry - did you… I mean you offered to tutor me… but if this is a bad time-"

Sherlock waves his hand in dismissal, feeling a nasty swoop of guilt in his gut for making John feel unwelcome. "N-no, it- it's fine." Even if he doesn't have time for distractions right now, he immediately decides he never wants to see that look on John's face again.

John should never feel anything other than wonderful.

John smiles gratefully at him and continues to pull out his books. "Okay, so I_ really_ don't get chapter seven at all. I mean like at all. With all the chemical compound nonsense? Christ almighty. Can we start there?"

Sherlock snorts and opens his notebook, turning to rummage around his bag for a pen.

"What's that?" John asks curiously and Sherlock realizes his mistake.

He lunges for the note sitting just inside his notebook, panic rippling through him.

"Nothing!" He barks a little too viciously, crinkling the paper in his fist and shoving it into his bag.

Up until this point, John has been nothing but disarmingly kind to Sherlock. He's been all grins and laughter and charm.

Sherlock never wants that to end.

If he were to find out that Sherlock is hoarding a note that either doesn't belong to him or is some cruel joke _about_ him, would he make fun? Tease him mercilessly? Tell all his rugby mates what a loser Sherlock is?

He has no idea. He doesn't think so, but he'd prefer not to find out.

His eyes flicker to John's.

John is grinning at him.

Sherlock feels the panic crush him.

"Looks like someone's got an admirer," John teases, popping an amused eyebrow.

Sherlock's heart sinks.

"It-it's not mine," he says hastily. "It…I don't know, must have gotten dropped in my locker on accident."

John's face falls. "You don't think it's for you?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Obviously not," he mutters.

Admirer.

What rubbish.

"Why not?"

Sherlock sighs. "It's just not- I don't even know who it's from."

John laughs. "I think that's the point."

Sherlock shrugs. "Well I can't know for sure."

"I'll bet it was meant for you," John says, glancing pointedly at Sherlock's bag.

Sherlock shakes his head. He really doesn't want to have this conversation with John Watson of all people.

No one fancies him.

No one even_ likes_ him.

And besides, if someone _did_ like him, they wouldn't hide behind a bloody-

Oh.

Actually.

"Um," Sherlock mumbles, faltering for a moment before deciding and reaching a shaky hand down to his bag. John has already seen the note, anyway.

Maybe he can help.

Sherlock pushes it toward John. "Do you-" he clears his throat uncomfortably. "Do you know what… what that means?" he taps his finger over the signature.

YSA.

He's certain it's an acronym.

Well, _almost _certain.

John glances at the note and Sherlock immediately tugs it back.

"Sorry," he says quickly, shoving it away. "It's stupid, I know-"

"Your Secret Admirer."

Sherlock glances up to meet ocean blue eyes staring back at him. "What?"

"That's what is stands for," John says nodding to Sherlock's book bag. "Y-S-A. Your Secret Admirer."

Sherlock resists the urge to slap his own forehead.

"Of course," he breathes, feeling so utterly foolish, shaking his head.

"Hey, that's okay," John says soothingly. "Have you never gotten anything like that?"

Sherlock shoots him a glare. "It's not for me," he says sharply.

The corners of John's mouth quirk. "Are you sure?" he says smoothly with a wink.

Sherlock blinks.

He has no idea what to say back to that. He simply nods.

John laughs. "I bet it is for you," he repeats his mantra, eyes twinkling. "Some poor sod out there is pining for you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock snorts.

The idea of that is so patently ridiculous, he can't resist. "Yeah right," he mutters.

John simply smiles. "So what're you going to do about it?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Dunno," he mumbles. "Probably just throw it out."

He has absolutely zero intention of throwing out the note but he doesn't want John to think him some silly, sentimental teen.

"Really?"

Sherlock looks up to find John staring incredulously at him.

"Someone wrote you poetry, Sherlock," John says softly. "Someone put in a good deal of effort to tell you how they feel. It's… it's so…_romantic_. You'd really just throw it out?"

God, it was romantic wasn't it? And Sherlock knew it too. It was the word he's been searching for since he's received the note.

It's a word he would use for his faux-John in his head as well. Romantic. In his head, his John is romantic and thoughtful and lovely.

He blushes at the thought.

Romance.

He'd never even considered-

"Well, it's not for me," Sherlock replies flippantly. "It wouldn't be right for me to keep it." He sighs, fiddling with his pen. "But maybe… maybe I'll hold on to it? Try to find its rightful owner? The person it was meant for really ought to have it."

John's mouth spreads into a small, knowing smile. He nods. "I think that's a good idea," he agrees.

Sherlock nods back once in affirmation of agreement.

Then stiffens. "Um…you… you won't… you won't tell anyone about this," he mumbles, glancing at John from under his eyelashes. "Right?"

John's smile falters slightly. "Of course not," he says almost...fiercely? "I promise."

Sherlock nods in gratitude.

Then shakes himself.

He's humiliated himself enough in front of John Watson today. "Alright, so Chapter seven…"

* * *

_**Sherlock-**_

_**I wish you knew what you mean to me**_

_**I'm sorry I'm pants at poetry**_

_**But I had to write you another letter**_

_**Even though my last was better**_

_**Maybe next time**_

_**I won't make it rhyme**_

_**-YSA**_

Warmth blooms in Sherlock's chest, nestling comfortably between his ribs and slowly spreading through his body.

It has been seven long days of silence, and Sherlock had essentially come to the conclusion that the note had definitely been a mistake. Obviously not meant for him.

But here this is.

Another note.

Same handwriting.

Addressed to him.

Addressed to _him_.

Sherlock's heart stutters slightly.

Someone likes him.

Someone is interested in him.

Sherlock bites his lip.

This is… surprisingly excited.

Sherlock carefully folds the note and slips it into his notebook with the other, cheeks flaming.

He is positively _dying_ to know who it is.

A boy, obviously, which is a relief.

No awkward 'uh actually I'm gay' conversations, then.

A boy likes him.

Sherlock is _bursting_ with curiosity.

Who could it possibly be? Who could have noticed the somewhat quiet, too smart for his own good, geeky kid?

Sherlock hugs his notebook to his chest containing the two poems – two poems written for _him_ – and makes his way to chemistry.

* * *

"Someone's happy," John smirks, dropping down in his usual seat.

"W-what?" Sherlock stammers, reeling back to reality.

Of course that doesn't last long as the breath is promptly knocked from his lungs again at the sight of John.

Wearing his rugby jacket.

Wrapped in red like a bloody Christmas present.

John grins and turns to reach for his bag on the other side of his chair.

WATSON glares at Sherlock, the letters stitched in thick white blocks across John's back.

Sherlock has no idea why he loves that jacket.

Maybe because John looks unbelievably sexy in it.

Like a true captain.

Maybe because in his false reality Sherlock is the one wearing that jacket. As proof, John says in his dreams, that they're together.

Romantic, his pretend John.

"Well, you're practically glowing," John teases as he turns back to him. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say someone is smitten."

"N-no, I-" Sherlock tries and fails to find a proper explanation.

He didn't know he was glowing.

John laughs. "Who in the world has rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless?"

Sherlock is certain he's blushing from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He's completely horrified. "No one," he mumbles.

"Ah," John says with a knowing nod, "did we get another love note?"

Sherlock turns sharply to his seatmate, eyes giant. "How'd you know?" he blurts before thinking better of it.

John giggles, shaking his head fondly at Sherlock. "It's okay to be excited about something like that, you know."

Sherlock bites his lip.

He's a bit glad he has someone to talk to about this.

However, he very much wishes it wasn't John.

Because somewhere in his gut he wishes the notes were _from_ John.

Somewhere, in his fucked up faux reality, John is the one writing him poetry. John is the one slipping notes in his locker and thinking of silly rhymes to say he likes him. John is the one that fancies him.

Christ, Sherlock is certain he's officially a nutter.

"I don't even know who they're from," Sherlock mumbles.

"Are you worried you won't like them when you find out?"

Sherlock's eyes bulge.

He hadn't even thought of that.

He was more concerned about if they would actually like _him_.

"They don't even know me," Sherlock murmurs. "How could they-"

He clamps his mouth shut before something truly pathetic came out of it.

John's lips twitch. "Why do you have such a hard time believing someone could like you?"

Sherlock sighs. "Never mind," he says with a shake of his head.

John chuckles, grinning broadly as class starts.

* * *

_**Sherlock-**_

_**One more:**_

_**You're absolutely adorable**_

_**And positively incorrigible**_

_**I love it when you smile**_

_**Even though it's not your style**_

_**You are so fantastically smart**_

_**I wish I had your heart**_

_**You have mine**_

_**And I swear the next one won't rhyme**_

_**-YSA**_

Even Sherlock knows how hard he's beaming.

Tipping himself forward slightly so his coat lapels fan out in front of him, Sherlock subtly presses the note to his heart.

This is the best one yet.

All the compliments.

The promise of more.

Sherlock ducks his head down and smiles so hard, his cheeks will be sore for days.

His heart thuds against the paper, fluttering against the words in pure glee.

This couldn't be a prank. It just couldn't. Sherlock is cynical but not downright bitter, and not even he believes humanity to be this cruel.

Besides, he couldn't have pissed anyone off this badly to do this to him.

He keeps to himself mostly anyway.

He tucks the note into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He wants to keep it close.

Close to his heart.

* * *

"What's up 92 percent!" John's happy voice filters into Sherlock's ears as he slams a piece of paper down on the library table.

Several shushes could be heard from across the room, but John ignores them, grinning at Sherlock as he takes his usual seat.

Sherlock can't help but grin back.

John's joy is infectious.

He dips his head in acknowledgement. "Adequate."

John's mouth drops open in mock-offense. "Adequate?! Mate you got me my first A in Chemistry! It's better than bloody adequate!"

Sherlock laughs. "Okay, okay, umm...Fantastic? Amazing? Unbelievable?"

John leans back, throwing up his hands. "Woah, let's not get crazy, here. Besides, me getting an A is not _unbelievable_." He glares and Sherlock snorts.

John grins back and settles in, preparing for their usual tutoring session. "Anything from YSA today?"

Sherlock has been tutoring him for several weeks, receiving one note a week and, stupidly, telling John about all of them.

Something he feels miserably guilty about.

A terrible swirl of agony has been going on inside him the entire time.

The notes have only continued to be perfect.

And funny.

His admirer is _funny_.

_**I think about you all the time**_

_**I wish you were mine**_

_**All three of these lines rhyme!**_

_**Quite proud,**_

_**-YSA**_

_**I can't do anymore poetry. I'm terrible at it. Besides, I can't find a poetic way to tell you that I love it when you look at me.**_

_**-YSA**_

_**You're gorgeous when you laugh. Did you know that? I wanted to tell you that. You should laugh more often.**_

_**By the way, I swear I'm not some creepy stalker.**_

_**-YSA**_

This secret admirer thing is lovely and all, but Sherlock is starting to get restless.

For one thing, he doesn't even know this person. He doesn't know if he would even _like_ this person.

What he does know is this person _thinks_ they like him.

What this person doesn't know is that Sherlock's heart belongs to the rugby captain he spends only inches from in Chemistry class and at the library with every day.

And Sherlock has never had any intention of being a heartbreaker.

He doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.

What he wants, with all his heart, is for the notes to be from John.

Which obviously isn't possible.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, but I figured there wouldn't be one today. I think I figured out the pattern though."

"I bet you could figure out who it is if you really tried," John grins at him from across their usual library table.

Sherlock shrugs, begging his heart to be still and stop thrumming wildly at John's words.

John, as it turns out, likes Sherlock's eccentricities. He laughs and compliments and cheers when Sherlock rattles of a deduction or thought process he'd had about something in particular.

It's making things so much harder.

"Maybe," Sherlock says. "I just wish I could talk to the person, you know? Just say...something. I don't know. Have a conversation."

John cocks his head. "About what?"

Sherlock's cheeks burn. He actually isn't so sure he'd want to talk to whoever is sending him these wonderful love notes. Because then, no matter how that would turn out, whether he liked them or not, whether _they_ liked _him_ or not... they'd stop.

It was a terrifying thought.

Although, if it did turn out to be someone he possibly-

But that was absurd. There was no one.

Except John of course.

But yet again.

That was impossible.

"I don't know," Sherlock mumbles and John beams at him.

Here's the other issue with being friends with John Watson.

He's like the best friend you could ever want.

He's funny and caring. He's constantly cheerful and grinning from ear to ear. He actually listens and replies intelligently and is bloody perfect.

He's the best. Really and truly the best.

A great friend through and through.

Another reason Sherlock feels guilty constantly.

He's been trying to stop himself from falling in love with John.

But he's all too aware it's not working.

And it's not right.

It's not right to feel this way about someone who has done nothing but be nice to you.

The _only_ person that is nice to you.

You shouldn't be lusting and loving and wanting someone who is your friend.

Sherlock feels the usual sickening twist in his stomach.

And he has no idea what to do about it.

* * *

Late at night, Sherlock lays the notes out on the floor of his bedroom and examines each of them.

He never thought he'd have this issue.

Torn between two...

What? Lovers?

Please.

John isn't interested in him.

So Sherlock is essentially unattached.

Free to mingle and mix and be.

Free to date this mystery note-leaver.

Whoever they are.

Sherlock sighs heavily.

Whoever they are, they're not John.

And therein lies the issue.

He runs an agitated hand through his hair.

This is bullshit.

He shouldn't feel any loyalty to John.

He shouldn't feel this strongly about John.

He should have never gotten to know John.

He should have never agreed to tutor John.

John is straight.

John is straight.

John is straight.

He repeats this mantra silently as he climbs into bed, but his heart is definitely not listening.

* * *

"Are you okay?" John's eyes are the size of dinner plates as he drops his bag down on the ground next to their usual table a week later. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Sherlock swallows thickly.

He feels like he has.

Silently, he slides the newest note to John, who unfolds it and reads intently.

Then he grins.

"Awe, they want to chat with you!"

Sherlock's eyes bulge. "How is that a good thing?"

John frowns. "I thought you wanted to talk to them?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

He's so bloody confused.

"I...I do but..." Sherlock trails off, running a hand through his curls. He has so many concerns. He's only willing to verbalize a few to his friend. "John, what if... what if they don't actually like me? What if it's just a weird 'from afar' thing. Like what if he - _they_-"

"He?" John asks with a quirked eyebrow. "You know it's a bloke?"

Sherlock bites his lip hard, a flash of anger burning in his chest.

He'd _sworn_ to himself he wouldn't reveal his sexuality to John. Ever. And now-

Fuck.

"I-" he says, eyes sweeping across the desk in a panic to explain.

"It's fine, Sherlock," John says hurriedly, waving his hand. "Seriously, it's all fine. I was just wondering how you knew."

Sherlock raises his eyes to meet ocean deep baby blues staring at him. John's brow is furrowed in concern, his hand half outstretched in reassurance. He nods once subtly to confirm his words.

Sherlock is certain he's just melted into a puddle at the sight of those eyes looking at him like that.

He has to look away.

It's too much.

"It's just a guess," he says softly, "but the handwriting. It's a bit messy, like a boy's would be. And he's left-handed. See how the words are slightly smudged from where he drags his wrist across the fresh writing? Obvious."

John blinks at him for a moment.

Then he grins. "Brilliant," he breathes his usual reaction to Sherlock's deductions and Sherlock blushes his usual deep blush at John's praise.

"So are you going to text him?"

Sherlock glances back at the note, a phone number scrawled above the words.

_**I want to prove I'm worth it before you know who I am. Text me?**_

_**-YSA**_

"I-"

"He likes you," John says reassuringly. "I'm certain of it."

Sherlock can't meet his eyes. He can't.

"What if it's someone awful?"

John snorts. "Like who?"

"Like Phillip Anderson?" Sherlock suddenly feels queasy at the thought of these wonderful notes coming from someone as disgusting as Phillip Anderson. Or even – "Or Victor Trevor?"

"The arsehole or the resident bully are your top picks?" John asked with an amused eyebrow raise. "Way to think positive."

"I'm just saying-"

"I will give you fifty quid if Victor Trevor is the one writing you poetry."

"John," Sherlock tries to say sternly, but the corners of his mouth quirk without his permission.

"I have History with him next period," John says in mock-seriousness. "I could just ask him."

"I've got Maths with him in the mornings, I could ask him myself," Sherlock counters and John laughs.

"Sure you would."

Sherlock sighs. "I just-"

"Just text him, Sherlock," John encourages with one of his kind smiles. "It's worth finding out, right?"

Sherlock studies John's face for a moment, because looking at John is like taking in a breath of fresh air.

He rolls the words around in his mouth for a moment and then murmurs, "I-...I might."

John's soft chuckle warms Sherlock all over.

* * *

He paces his room, palms sweating around the mobile he has clenched in his hand.

He can't do it.

He shouldn't do it.

Maybe he should.

No, he can't.

Well, maybe just-

Christ, he's a nutter.

Officially.

_He likes you_, John's words replay in his head._ He likes you_.

Sherlock bites down on the disappointment of having John Watson encouraging him to date someone else and focuses on his words.

Words a friend gave him.

Sherlock lets out a serious, heavy exhale and begins to tap out a message.

_Hi -SH_

He flops on his bed, face first, as a cold sweat forms on his brow.

He's just about to panic when-

_**Really? That's what you're going with? I've been writing you flowery, sappy, awful poetry and you're going with 'Hi' ? -YSA**_

Sherlock grins despite himself. Funny, his admirer.

_Well, it's difficult to know what to say to someone you've never met. _

_And don't sign your texts YSA. It's too weird._

_**Why not? You signed your text SH. It only seems right. -YSA**_

_**Okay, never mind, it takes far too much time to sign them.**_

_**And we've met, by the way.**_

Sherlock stares wide-eyed at his phone.

_Have we?_

_**We have.**_

_When?_

_**NA**_

_Not Applicable?_

_**Not Answering.**_

_Why not?_

_**Because then you'll know who I am.**_

_Isn't that the point of this?_

_**Nope. The point of this is to win you over with my charm and then when we meet you won't be able to resist me.**_

_When are we meeting?_

_**That depends.**_

_On?_

_**On how long it takes to woo you.**_

The tiny ember that has lodged itself in Sherlock's chest when this all began slowly glows to life. He bites his lip as he types his reply.

_Can I ask a clarifying question?_

_**Maybe. I can't promise I'll answer.**_

_Fine. Are you a boy or a girl?_

_**Surely the great Sherlock Holmes has already gotten that sorted.**_

Sherlock stares at his phone, furrowing his brow.

_What does that mean?_

_**It means I know you're the smartest person in our school.**_

_Is your plan to flatter me until I reciprocate your feelings?_

_**=)**_

_Strike one: emoticons._

_**I knew it! That was a test. I knew you'd hate it.**_

_You didn't know._

_**I knew. I told you; we've met.**_

_But you don't know me._

_**Yes I do.**_

_Not really. Not enough to know if you actually like me._

_**Trust me, I do.**_

_A bit creepy, this secret admirer thing._

_**Agreed. I don't know how to tell you how I feel about you without it sounding like I'm stalking you.**_

_**Would it help if I told you I don't know where you live?**_

_A bit._

_**I don't know where you live.**_

_Really?_

_**Seriously. I don't have time to be stalking you. You sort of just... fell into my life.**_

Sherlock frowns.

_Is that supposed to be a compliment?_

_**I'm just saying, it wasn't like I set out to find you. You just sort of happened and I can't stop thinking about you.**_

_Oh._

_**Oh?**_

_Oh._

_**Is that a good oh or a bad oh?**_

_I don't know._

_**You're adorable.**_

_You've said that already._

_**And I meant it the last time too.**_

Sherlock stares down at his mobile, truly unsure how to respond.

_**Am I freaking you out? Shit, I've freaked you out haven't I. **_

_**Sorry, I'm really not a creep, I just don't know how to do this in person. You're really intimidating.**_

_**I don't know how to tell you all this without it coming off weird.**_

_**Sorry. **_

_Don't apologize._

_It's fine._

_**It is?**_

_It is._

_**Okay.**_

_It's...nice._

_**Just nice?**_

_More than nice._

_**I'll take it.**_

_Okay._

_**Okay.**_

_I have to go to sleep now._

_**I'll text you in the morning then. **_

_You will?_

_**Have I won your heart yet?**_

_I don't know how to answer that._

_**Then I'll text you in the morning.**_

_Wait_

_You didn't answer my question._

_**Which was?**_

_Are you male or female?_

The answer seems to take eternity. When the chime goes off, Sherlock is almost afraid to look. He peeks at the lit up screen.

And grins.

_**Male.**_

_Okay._

_**Is that...okay?**_

_It's okay._

_**Okay.**_

_**Goodnight Sherlock.**_

_Goodnight._

Sherlock decides if he is in fact talking to the person who is stalking him and potentially going to murder him, well, it may not be such a bad way to go.

* * *

_So, you're gay then?_

_**Way to wake a guy up in the morning. Jesus.**_

_Sorry._

_**Don't be sorry. Do you have any idea how nice it is to wake up to a text from you?**_

_Flattery again._

_**Meaning it again.**_

_**And no, I'm not gay, I'm bi.**_

_Ah._

_**Yeah.**_

_**Little experience with men thus far.**_

_**Would you say my first attempt is going well though?**_

_First attempt at what?_

_**At getting a date with a bloke.**_

_**;)**_

_We talked about emoticons._

_**I think you secretly like them.**_

_What is the basis of that hypothesis?_

_**Ah, there he is!**_

_Who?_

_**The boy genius everyone knows and loves.**_

_Are you talking about me?_

_**Christ, has anyone ever told you how fucking cute you are? Even in text you're adorable.**_

_You're just a flirt._

_**Not with everyone. Only the ones I like.**_

_**Sherlock?**_

_**Did I freak you out again?**_

_**I don't mean to.**_

_**But this is so exciting for me!**_

_What is?_

_**Talking to you like this.**_

_**You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this.**_

_Do what?_

_**Talk to you.**_

_**Flirt with you.**_

_**Tell you how cute you are.**_

_Again, you hardly know me._

_**Again, I know you better then you think.**_

_It's getting creepy again._

_**Shit. Switch topics?**_

_How long?_

_**How long what?**_

_How long have you wanted to talk to me like this?_

_**I shouldn't say.**_

_Why not?_

_**It'll get creepy again.**_

_That long huh?_

_**You have no idea.**_

_I might, actually._

Sherlock immediately wants to unsend that last text. He's revealed too much. Before he can back track his phone dings again.

_**How so?**_

_Never mind._

_**Come on, I've put myself out here. Gone to the extremes of creepiness.**_

_**The least you can do is give me a little something back.**_

_It doesn't matter._

_**Everything about you matters to me.**_

Sherlock considers his response.

_**Too much?**_

_No, I was just thinking._

_**Don't hurt yourself.**_

_Very funny._

_**So are you going to tell me?**_

_I just meant that I know what it's like to have feelings for someone for a long time._

_From… afar I guess?_

_**Did you write them terrible poetry as well?**_

_No. Nothing has happened._

_**Ah.**_

_**So there's someone else.**_

_No._

_Not really._

_**Not really?**_

_It wouldn't have ever gone anywhere._

_He wouldn't reciprocate._

_He's straight._

_**Okay.**_

_**Still jealous, but okay.**_

_You are?_

_**Hell yes.**_

_Are you going to murder them too after you murder me?_

_**Probably.**_

_**But I'd back off if you had someone else.**_

_I don't._

_**And you're okay with this continuing?**_

He replies before he's fully thought it through.

_Yes._

_**Okay.**_

_**So I can keep telling you how darling you are?**_

_**No jealous boyfriend is going to come beat me up?**_

_He's not my boyfriend._

Sherlock finishes getting ready for school and is out the door before he checks his phone again, finding a single text.

_**Good.**_

* * *

John has barely sat down at their Chemistry worktop when Sherlock urgently turns to him. "I texted him," he blurts.

John snorts as he takes out his books. "I take it it went well?"

Sherlock nods. "It's a boy."

"I thought we already established that?"

"Well I had to clarify it."

"Mm," John nods. "And how do you feel?"

"I-" Sherlock starts to respond then pauses. "I'm not sure."

"Well do you like him?"

"He's witty."

John grins. "Well that's always a plus."

"That's a good thing, right?" Sherlock asks cautiously. "I mean, you're funny. You'd like to date someone funny too, right?"

John blinks. "You think I'm funny?"

Sherlock immediately blushes. "I - yeah, you're...yeah."

John giggles and Sherlock swears he's having a heart attack. "I think you're funny too."

Sherlock furrows his brow. "I'm not funny."

John's giggle turns into a full-fledged belly laugh. "You don't mean to be," he says between bouts of laughter. "It's what makes you funny."

Sherlock doesn't quite follow but John is grinning widely at him and Sherlock decides he doesn't care if he understands or not and sets out on memorizing that sweet, delightful face John is currently making.

"So are you going to meet him?" John asks as he sobers.

"He said he doesn't want to meet yet."

"Why?"

Sherlock looks down. "I don't know."

"Well, what did he say?"

"He said he wants to..." his cheeks heat as he repeats the text message, "to 'woo' me."

John barks out a laugh. "Are you woo-able, Sherlock Holmes?"

"I have no bloody idea," Sherlock mumbles and John's shoulder shake with mirth.

"Well, that sounds nice."

Sherlock nods.

It does sound nice.

* * *

_**How was your day?**_

_It was fine, mummy, thanks for asking._

_**Oh good dear, I'm so glad.**_

_It's getting creepy for a whole other reason now._

_**Yeah, too much. Sorry I couldn't text today. It's difficult during classes.**_

_I know. It's no problem._

_**I thought about you all day though.**_

_You did?_

_**I did.**_

Sherlock chews on the inside of his cheek for a minute before replying.

_Did we talk?_

_**Nice try.**_

_You won't even give me a clue?_

_**Absolutely not.**_

_Do we have any classes together?_

_**Didn't I just say no clues?**_

_Yes._

_**Well then.**_

_Fine._

_**I had an idea though.**_

_Impressive._

_**Thank you, I thought so too.**_

_Are you going to tell me what it is?_

_**When you stop being snarky.**_

Sherlock barks a laugh as he reads, laying flat on his stomach on his bed.

_Sorry._

_**Better. I was thinking there is a party this weekend.**_

_You're sharp AND observant. Very impressive._

_**I try.**_

_**I was thinking we could meet.**_

_**At the party, I mean.**_

_If you actually knew me at all, you'd know I don't go to parties._

_**If you knew me at all you'd know I don't really do the party scene either.**_

_I don't know you at all._

_**Exactly.**_

_**But it'll level the playing field. **_

_**Put us both out of our comfort zones.**_

_Interesting theory._

_**I thought so.**_

_**I figured a public place would be best too.**_

_Why?_

_**In case I turn out to be an axe murderer.**_

_Ah, good point._

_Why an axe?_

_**More dramatic.**_

_Of course._

_You do have a flare for the dramatics, what with the whole notes and anonymous texting and all._

_**So true. **_

_So you're prepared to reveal your identity?_

_**You make me sound like a superhero.**_

_Better than an axe murderer?_

_**Much.**_

_More dramatic._

_**More my style.**_

_Okay._

_**Okay it's more my style or okay you'll meet me at the party?**_

_Okay I'll meet you at the party._

_**You will?**_

_I will._

_**=)**_

_Okay never mind._

_**That's me smiling.**_

_Your smile looks like an equals sign and a closed parenthesis?_

_**Yes, it looks like that exactly.**_

_Odd._

_**Very.**_

_**I have a few days left to charm you enough so my emoticon-like smile won't deter you.**_

_**Wish me luck?**_

Sherlock grins stupidly at his phone like he's been doing for the past few days.

_Good luck._

_**See, I knew nice Sherlock would come out to play.**_

_You're going to need it._

_**Okay, now you're just being deliberately cruel.**_

_It's part of my charm._

_**Don't I know it.**_

* * *

"Are you going to Victor's party on Saturday?"

Sherlock's eyes shoot wide. "You're kidding."

John's brow furrows immediately. "What?"

Sherlock pulls out his phone. "My- YSA," he catches himself, tapping his mobile. "He invited me."

John laughs. "Oh," he says, grinning. "Well, that's good, right?"

Sherlock nods. "Just weird. I've never been invited to a party before and now I've been asked twice-" he realizes his mistake and ducks his head. "N-not that you were inviting me or anything like that, I just-"

"I was inviting you," John cuts him off, smiling.

Sherlock turns sharply to John. "You were?"

John giggles. "Of course! I hardly ever go to these things, but Greg suggested I do and the rest of the team is going so I figure I'd better go. Keep the lads in line and all that."

Sherlock is staring. "And… and you want me to come?"

John nods. "You've been so great with the tutoring, I figure I probably owe you a beer, yeah?"

"Oh," Sherlock murmurs, eyes skittering across the table.

"I'd even go as far as to say we're friends by now," John says with a winning smile.

A slow smile spreads across Sherlock's face, feeling like he could die happy right this very moment. He nods. "Yeah. Yeah, we're friends."

John beams at him. "Good. Besides, you're going to need a bodyguard incase this guy turns out to be a psycho."

Sherlock's eyes shoot wide. "Did you say it was Victor's party?"

John laughs as he nods.

"But…John, what if he's-"

"He's not," John chuckles. "Well, if he is, you'll get a nice healthy dose of humiliation and fifty quid."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "That has got to be the worst constellation prize in the history of constellation prizes."

"Come on, fifty quid is pretty good."

"Do you even have fifty quid?"

John's lips twitch, suppressing a laugh. "Maybe."

"You don't, do you?"

"You're right, I don't. You're getting scammed by a rugby player and a bully. Tough luck, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth drops open. "John!" he cries indignantly as the captain laughs.

"Relax," John whispers as the teacher starts class. "It's not him. And if it is him, I'll be there to beat him up. Deal?"

Sherlock nods. "Deal."

* * *

_**Are you nervous?**_

_About what?_

_**If the next Bond movie will be any good.**_

_What?_

_**You asked me a stupid question I gave you a stupid answer.**_

_Well played._

_**Thank you.**_

_**So? Are you?**_

_I'm fine._

_**Well that makes one of us.**_

_What do you mean?_

_**I mean I'm bloody terrified.**_

_Really?_

_**Of course. I've had a mad crush on you for ages, so much so that I started writing you fucking poetry in secret and now, after weeks of anonymous notes and text messages, I'm about to tell you who I am.**_

_Yeah, you've really shot yourself in the foot haven't you?_

_**I really have.**_

_Sorry about that._

_**Thanks for the support.**_

_I do what I can._

_**I'll see you tomorrow night then?**_

_Yes._

_I'm nervous too._

_**=)**_

_Oh god._

_**Goodnight Sherlock. **_

_Goodnight._

* * *

Sherlock is vibrating as he paces back and forth on the front steps of his house.

John had offered to pick him up for the party and requested his address.

Sherlock had written it down on a piece of paper.

He'd considered asking for John's phone number, just in case he got lost, but thought better of it.

Besides, how do you ask a platonic friend for their phone number without coming off...well, not platonically.

And John clearly hadn't asked for Sherlock's number.

It wasn't something that slipped passed Sherlock's attention.

But he hadn't said anything.

Now he's roaming in front of his house, feeling silly, perking up at every single car that passes by.

He's buzzing with anticipation.

Not only will his secret admirer be revealed tonight.

But he'll also get to see John Watson outside of school.

He'll get to ride in John's car with him.

He'll get to spend time with John when there isn't a teacher to interrupt their conversation or a Chemistry test John needs to pass.

It'll just be them

Alone.

In a car.

Going to a party.

Together.

Sherlock is nervous and excited and terrified and anxious and he cannot wait.

A little beater pulls around the corner and Sherlock can't help grinning like a lunatic.

He knows it's John driving that horrible little vehicle.

John parks and gets out, head popping up from the opposite side of the car. He spreads his hands across the hood, smirking as he eyes Sherlock. "Impressive, right?"

Sherlock throws his head back and laughs.

Christ, he loves this boy.

This boy in the red rugby jacket he adores so much.

He all but runs to the passenger's side and climbs in as John slides into the driver's seat. "Are you ready for the ride of your life?"

Sherlock can't stop giggling. "Ready as I'll ever be."

John is grinning at him as he starts the car and takes off into the night.

"Alright so how are you going to play this tonight?" John asks as they barrel toward the party.

"I'm going to get very, _very _drunk, vomit all over the bathroom and then snog a total stranger."

John turns sharply to him. "What?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Isn't that what one does at a high school party?"

John looks startled for a moment longer before he bursts out laughing. "Sounds about right. Please do that. I'm sure YSA would love it."

"I'd win his heart immediately," Sherlock grins.

"Well, if it's Victor Trevor, then yeah you probably will."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "Oh god, what if it _is_ him?!"

John's smile never falters. He shakes his head. "I'm almost positive it's not him."

"But what if it _is_-"

"I'll be there, Sherlock," John says sincerely. "Don't worry, okay?"

Why that puts Sherlock at ease, he will never know, but he nods in agreement. "Okay."

Sherlock can't be certain why John gives him a knowing grin.

They pull up to the party and Sherlock immediately freezes. "I don't think I can do this."

"Sure you can, come on. If anything, _I'm_ dying to know who it is, so-"

"So you'll risk my humiliation just to satisfy your curiosity?"

"I sure will," John says with a smirk. "Come on. It'll be fun!"

Sherlock scoffs but crawls out of the car anyway, hands shaking on the handle.

"John!" Greg Lestrade's voice comes from the dim porch as he waves enthusiastically.

Sherlock swallows hard. "Well, I'll just leave you to it-"

"Greg, how goes it?" John says, cutting him off. "Have you met Sherlock?"

Greg's eyes widen slightly as they make their way up the steps. "Uh - actually no, not officially. Although I do know who you are. You blew a hole through the door of Mr. Miller's chemistry classroom last year, year?"

John turns sharply to Sherlock as Sherlock's cheeks flame. "You did _what_?"

"It was an accident," Sherlock mumbles. "If I had permission to use the lab, I wouldn't have been hurrying through and mixed up my chemicals."

A laugh bubbles over Greg's lips and both boys turn back to him. "It's a pleasure, Sherlock," he says with a genuine grin.

Sherlock finds himself returning the grin. He nods. "Pleasure's all mine," he says softly.

John nudges him and Sherlock glances up to find blue eyes giving him an amused eyebrow raise. "You're insane," he murmurs and Sherlock laughs.

"You guys want drinks?" Greg asks, turning back toward the house.

Sherlock vaguely hears John reply as they enter through the front door.

_He's _here. Somewhere in the midst of drunk bodies and cheap alcohol, YSA is here.

Somehow, it's different. Sherlock always knew he walked the halls of his school every day but tonight feels so much more... real. Like this is really happening.

He swallows hard.

A hand comes down on his shoulder, shaking him from his thoughts.

"Sherlock?" Greg asks cautiously. "You okay?"

Sherlock blinks several times, clearing his mind. "Sorry," he says, feeling so foolish.

Greg chuckles. "No problem. Just wondering if you wanted a drink? John's already been swept off by the rugby boys." He laughs as though this is such good fun but a cold dread creeps up Sherlock's neck.

"Uh-um, sure," he mumbles. "To the drink, I mean."

Greg smiles. "Sure thing. Beer okay?"

Sherlock nods. "Thank you."

Greg gives him a pat on the shoulder and a smile and takes off to the kitchen.

Just about on cue, Sherlock's phone vibrates in his pocket and he tears it free.

_**You here?**_

_Yes._

_**There is an office at the back of the house. Seems pretty cleared out. Meet me there?**_

A fine shiver runs down every limb of Sherlock's body, reaching every nerve ending with a sharp zap.

He's going to meet him.

YSA.

The boy who likes him.

He taps out a reply immediately.

_I'll be there._

_**I'm nervous**__._

Sherlock huffs a soft laugh to himself.

_Me too._

_**That makes me feel a little better.**_

_**Listen**_

_**If you don't feel the same way, I'll understand, okay?**_

_**I just hope maybe we can be friends afterward?**_

_Already giving me the 'just friends' speech? That doesn't bode well._

_**Not the just friends speech. Just the 'it's cool if you don't feel the same I'll just be heartbroken' speech.**_

_Noted. _

_**Okay.**_

_Okay._

_**See you soon.**_

_Now?_

_**Yeah.**_

_Okay._

Sherlock gingerly ducks into the crowd, carefully maneuvering around classmates he's hardly ever spoken to and makes his way to the back of the house.

The glass door leading to the backyard sits next to wooden door, cracked at the opening, light pouring out from within.

Sherlock presses the door open with shaky fingertips, attempting to get a peek at who sits inside before being seen.

A figure dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans has their back to Sherlock.

And Sherlock's heart immediately breaks into several large, jagged pieces.

Victor Trevor, the biggest, meanest, dumbest boy in school, is bent over a table on the opposite side of the small room.

Sherlock hears a hard snort and then Victor straightens and whips around, wiping his nose and locking his gaze in.

"Sherlock!" Victor cries, obviously shocked to see him.

Sherlock's stomach drops.

"Er- sorry-" he tries to turn but Victor takes three long strides and grabs his forearm.

"Good to see you outside of school."

His voice has changed from shock to smug recognition and Sherlock turns to find a smirk plastered on his face.

His eyes are black.

"Um, y-yeah, listen I was just-" Sherlock turns to go but Victor grips his arm.

"Maths!" Victor yells too sharply, snapping his fingers in Sherlock's face. "We have maths together, yeah?"

"Uh – I - yeah-" Sherlock glances behind him, but Victor's grip tightens.

"You look better without your nose in a book."

Sherlock's face immediately drains of color.

He doesn't like the tone of Victor's voice.

"Um. T-thank you?"

Victor snorts loudly. "You're cute."

Sherlock's mouth goes completely dry.

"You're high," he counters.

Please. Please if there is a God, please make it that Victor Trevor is _not _YSA.

Victor barks out a manic laugh and gives a hard yank on Sherlock's arm, propelling him forward. "You want some? Just a little something to take the edge off? I know you _never_ come to these things."

Sherlock just barely catches a glimpse of the white powder on the table and shakes his head.

Fuck no.

"No thank you," he says, subtly pulling away to get out of Victor's grasp, but the boywraps a thick arm around his shoulders.

"Come on," he croones, too close to Sherlock's face. "It'll be fun. It'll help for later."

"W-what happens later?" Sherlock asks in a hoarse voice, feeling claustrophobic and terrified.

"You really are adorable," Victor laughs and Sherlock's entire body wilts.

Victor Trevor, belligerent, coke addict, true son of a bitch is Sherlock's Secret Admirer.

Sherlock simultaneously wants to throw up and burst into tears.

This is quite possibly the worst moment of his life.

"Really, I-"

"Come on don't be such a baby," Victor cackles, pulling him closer to the table.

Sherlock pushes at Victor's torso, attempting to move away. "I'm not a baby, I just don't-"

"Just try it. You'll like it, trust me."

Sherlock doesn't like the sickening gleam in Victor's eyes.

Victor is a mean cuss sober.

Sherlock would prefer not to find out what he's like while high.

Sherlock is panicking. "No, I-"

"Just try!"

"Seriously, I-"

"Come on. You like experiments, right?" Victor tightens his grip.

"Please, just-"

"What are you, a prude? Scared to have a little fun?"

"No, I just-"

"Just a taste."

Victor gives Sherlock a hard shove into the wood, pressing his face down.

"I love corrupting the losers," Victor grins. "We'll be such good friends."

"Stop-" Sherlock tries again, eyes burning with unshed tears and panic.

"Come on-"

"I'm fairly certain he said stop."

Victor's hand abruptly falls away from Sherlock's shoulder at the sharpness of the voice behind them.

Sherlock quickly straightens and shuffles out of reach and back toward the door where a very angry John Watson is standing.

"Hey, mate, relax," Victor says, throwing up his hands in mock defense. "We were just having a laugh."

"You're the only one laughing here, _mate_," John growls, spitting the last word with venom.

As scared as Sherlock is, he's rather glad he's not on the receiving end of John Watson's anger.

"John," Sherlock says softly. "Let's just go."

Please.

John's eyes dart to him for a quick second, assessing his well-being, then back to Victor. "You stay away from him. Do you understand me?"

Victor snorts. "What are you, his body guard?"

"You fucking bet," John bites back. "If I see you so much as look in his direction, me and the entire rugby team will be coming after you. Understood?"

Victor attempts to sneer back but Sherlock can detect the trace of fear in his eyes.

"Whatever," Victor waves off.

Sherlock tugs on John's sleeve. "Come on," he murmurs.

He just wants to go home.

Get out of here.

Forget this night and these past few weeks ever happened.

John throws one last glare at Victor, then takes off out the door, dragging Sherlock by the wrist along with him.

As soon as they are outside, John turns sharply to Sherlock.

"Are you alright?" he demands.

And for some horrifyingly unknown reason, that's what does it.

The concern in John's face is too much.

Sherlock's eyes well up at their own accord.

He only just realizes he's trembling from head to toe.

"Jesus, you're shaking," John murmurs, quickly shrugging off his rugby jacket and wrapping it around Sherlock's shoulders.

He can't even appreciate being bound in his favorite piece of cloth. He drops his gaze, trying to blink back the tears.

John's arms are suddenly around him.

"I'm sorry," John murmurs, stroking a calm hand down his back. "I'm so sorry."

He can't hold back them back any longer.

Sherlock clutches to his friend, shaking his head, fingers digging into cotton as large drops of water trickle down his cheeks.

John has nothing to be sorry about.

Sherlock is the idiot here.

"It was him," Sherlock murmurs against John's shoulder. "It was him."

"What did he do?" John's words are soft in his ear but demanding, laced with anger.

Sherlock sniffs. "YSA," he murmurs. "He's my…he's the one who has been texting me and leaving me notes."

John's hand on his back suddenly stills and he's pulling back.

Sherlock lets him go, feeling so unbelievably embarrassed already.

John doesn't go far.

His hands come to Sherlock's cheeks, effectively cupping his face in his hands. "What did you just say?" John's blue eyes are wide as he waits for an answer.

"It was him doing all those things," Sherlock says, wiping the wetness from his jaw with the back of his hand. "He was the one. He told me to meet him in that room, and he called me cute and-"

"It wasn't him," John murmurs, searching Sherlock's damp eyes. "Sherlock, it… it wasn't him."

Sherlock furrows his brow. "B-but I-"

"It was me."

Sherlock stills immediately.

Blinking rapidly, he watches John exhale slowly, looking away from Sherlock. "It was me," he whispers again.

Sherlock can't move.

Sherlock can't breathe.

"Y-you?" he murmurs breathlessly.

John's eyes find his again and he nods a single nod, a small tilt of his head. "Yes."

Sherlock doesn't understand. "Why?"

John's brow furrows, still cupping Sherlock's cheeks. "Isn't it obvious?"

Sherlock comes back to himself and takes a step back, John's hands falling away from his face. "Are…are you making fun of me?"

John frowns. "What?"

Panic seizes Sherlock's chest. "Was it just a joke?" He whispers weakly. "Were you just…just teasing me?"

John's eyes shoot wide and he takes a step forward, reaching out a hand. "Sherlock-"

"No," Sherlock replies firmly, stepping backward. "No, just-just answer me. Was it all just to mess with me? Just for a laugh?"

John looks like he could either burst into tears or scream bloody murder.

Sherlock isn't sure which he'd prefer.

"Sherlock," John seethes, quietly fierce. "I would _never _do that to you. _Ever_. Do you understand me? I meant every single thing I said. Every rhyme I wrote, every word I typed, I meant it. All of it."

Sherlock wants so desperately to believe him.

His head is all over the place.

He can't _think_.

"You-"

"Like you? Want you? Going out of my mind falling for you? Yes." John's face is so open, so sincere. "So much, Sherlock."

He can almost see those words sailing toward his heart in slow motion, about to land and crumble his entire world, rework itself and reform around John Watson.

He blinks again, lips parted in shock, the warmth of John's hands still seeping into his skin.

He's terrified.

"But you're-"

"Bi," John confirms, seeming entirely at ease with answering Sherlock's half-questions.

"And you-"

"Were scared you wouldn't feel the same," John offers a small, unsure smile. "Something I'm still unsure about..."

Sherlock frowns. "_Of course_ I do," he says, almost irritated that John, perfect, wonderful John Watson_ didn't_ know that _of course _Sherlock was in love with him. How could he not be? How could _anyone _not be?

"But you said...in your texts, you said there was someone you'd had feelings for-"

"I was talking about you!" Sherlock bursts out, unsure where the intensity is coming from. His emotions are all over the place. Fear, panic, hope, confusion...love.

He can barely process them all.

John's lips quirk at the corners. "Really?" he breathes.

Sherlock nods. "I was talking about you," he repeats softer.

Because John's face is slowly coming closer to his, blue eyes searching his green, one single question still hanging in the air.

Sherlock can feel John's breath on his lips, his own parting in anticipation.

John's hands come back to his cheeks again and he hovers so closely, eyes locked.

Waiting.

Sherlock falters, unsure what John wants, what he's waiting for.

Sherlock has never been kissed.

He doesn't know the proper protocol.

He doesn't know the correct process.

He searches John's beautiful blue eyes, desperate for the answer.

A subtle nod of John's head gives Sherlock the answer.

"John," he breathes and John descends upon him.

It's so much softer than Sherlock has ever imagined it would be.

John's lips sweep across his, Sherlock's face still cradled in his hands, noses bumping delicately against one another's.

The touch of John's mouth against Sherlock's sends a rather serious zing straight to his pounding heart, and he hums softly.

His two realities are suddenly colliding violently and after the initial impact, a slow, soothing calm settles over him.

It's like coming home.

Like righting his world.

Like every tormented moment he spent pining and fretting and panicking could have all been avoided if he'd simply kissed John Watson in the first place.

John's fingers card through his curls, laying such gentle, sweet kisses against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's arms are wrapping around John's waist, holding him close, locking him in place.

He never wants to let him go.

Never wants this moment to end.

John nips at his lower lip, taking it between his teeth and biting gently.

Sherlock groans softly.

"Sherlock," John moans, pulling him impossibly closer. He drags his lips down the sensitive skin of Sherlock's jaw to his neck. "I wanted this with you for so long."

Sherlock whimpers softly.

Romantic, his John.

_His_ John.

His_ real _John.

He nods against that silky blonde hair. "Me too," he says, clutching at John's shirt. "So much, John. So very much."

John's hands slide down his arms, interlocking their fingers as he straightens to find Sherlock's eyes. "I'm sorry about the deception," he huffs a self-deprecating laugh. "Bit of a cowardly move. But we were becoming friends and I didn't want to lose you if you didn't feel the same."

"I feel the same," Sherlock murmurs, cheeks flaming at the admission. "I never thought-"

"Maybe we should both stop thinking," John grins. "Maybe we should just..."

"Be?" Sherlock offers.

John laughs and gives him another kiss, grinning against his lips. "Just be," he agrees. "Just be...together?"

Sherlock nods hastily. "Together."

The squeeze John gives his hands is all the affirmation he needs.

"This is yours now, by the way," John says, untucking his fingers and straightening his rugby jacket on Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock's eyes widen. "What?"

John grins. "Yup. Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to see my name written across your back?"

Sherlock actually giggles, an odd euphoria settling over him. "I think I just might," he says and John laughs.

****Just fluff today! Loads of fluff. Thank you guys for reading! PLEASE continue to send prompts/suggestions/questions/concerns/love either here on my tumblr page at mssmithlove1! I adore all of you very much and LOVE getting ideas from you, it's so much fun! I think next up is a Unilock story with a misunderstanding… which means gratuitous smut is on its way. Hooray!****


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